“I’m done in, I think,” Sam said, finishing the contents of his glass. “I can’t remember the last time I did more than a few hours together in the saddle, and my back is reminding me.”
“Oh?” John frowned, instantly worried. “If I had known that you would have preferred to travel by carriage, we would have—”
“No, no. It is worth it,” Sam assured him. “I enjoyed today more than you know. What is a little backache for it?”
John swallowed. More than he knew? He shared the sentiment exactly.
“Agreed. Can’t burn the night away if we intend to get an early start,” John said, getting to his feet. He forced himself to hold Sam’s eyes, for to look away would be too obvious. Wouldn’t it? But obvious of what? It was not as if there was anything to be concerned about. They were going to share lodgings for the night. Traveling men often lodged together, and there was hardly anything remarkable in it.
Why, then, did the room suddenly feel so much hotter?
* * * *
He is nothing like I expected.
Those were the words that kept repeating in Sam’s mind. He thought he had already made that realization about John, but each new hour with him only reaffirmed the idea. Yes, he was charming and impeccably mannered, but he was also playful and relaxed. Yes, he gossiped and wore the latest fashions, but he was not cruel or vain. Yes, he was devastatingly handsome.
Sam had no “but” for that one.
He dug in his bag for his nightshirt as he tried—ah, he really did try—not to watch John in the mirror. His shirt was off, and he stood before the washbowl in nothing but his trousers and bare feet. The thick muscles of his back and arms worked and flexed in near-perfect definition as he leaned over the bowl and scrubbed his face with a cloth. Every line, every shadowy hill begged Sam to touch. He rolled his tongue behind his lips and wondered what John’s skin would taste like.
John turned, and Sam dropped his gaze back to his bag. So much for remaining aloof. If he did not get ahold of his imagination soon, there would be no hiding the physical evidence. In fact, perhaps it would be best if he took extra efforts to keep temptation and utter stupidity at bay.
“It should stay quite warm in here with that stove going as it is,” Sam said, gripping his nightshirt. “I can fold up these extra blankets and make a pallet easily enough.”
John stopped his actions at the washbowl. “A pallet? You mean on the floor?”
“Well, yes. I see no reason to make you uncomfortable. I am a sprawling sleeper.” Sam stopped when he saw John’s shouldered slump and his head hang down over the bowl. No. He would not let him think what he was thinking again. “John?”
He turned, a smile plastered on his face. “Mm?”
“That is the reason. None other. It’s been a long day and I don’t want to add to my imposition by making you scrunch up on the edge of the bed.”
God knows I would not mind if we shared the middle.
“Is my discomfort your only concern?” John asked.
“Yes.”
“Then it is no concern. We have both had a long day, and tomorrow will be worse for you if you wake up like a twisted root from sleeping on the floor.”
The floor, though it was the smarter option, was not at all appealing. Sam shrugged. “Very well, but if I do end up planting you a facer in my sleep, you are not allowed to call me out for it.”
John laughed. “Understood. I will simply accept the bruised pride. And bruised face, I suppose.”
“It’s not that bad,” Sam muttered, embarrassed. “I just toss sometimes.”
A few minutes later Sam took his turn at the washbowl, where he removed his shirt and washed with even more care than usual. If he was going to share a chaste bed with the man of his dreams, he would at least smell good while doing it. As he stood there, scrubbing his face and trying to pretend that he was not noting John’s every movement, he was at least thankful that the washstand did not have a mirror. He would not have liked to see his fat, padded muscles in such stark comparison to John’s marble physique.
Once done, he turned and reached for the nightshirt he had tossed on the bed. John stood on the other side, his hands in his bag, but when Sam looked at him, he snapped his gaze away and began rummaging through his clothes.
Was he staring at me?
What nonsense. Why would John be looking at him? It was not as if he was much to look at. He sighed, perhaps a bit too loudly, and pulled back the bedclothes. As he climbed in and quickly pulled the blankets to his waist, he noticed John had not moved and was still looking at him.
“W-what? What is it?” Sam managed to say.
“I didn’t bring a nightshirt.”
Good Lord, help me.
Sam swallowed hard. “Your valet didn’t pack any?”
John gave a wry smile. “No. I never wear them. I didn’t have any to pack.”
Images of John sprawled across a bed, twisted sheets just barely covering a few portions of his naked body, flashed through Sam’s mind. In less than a second, he rehearsed a few casual lines.
“No matter if you sleep naked, John. I’m sure soldiers do it all the time when the weather is hot. Think nothing of it.”
Oh, how one’s mind could be a clever little traitor.
“But I have a spare shirt and my drawers, so that’s fine.”
Damn.
Sam slid down under the blankets and turned his back to the middle of the bed. It was not as if there was any sort of good-night etiquette for such situations, and Sam no longer trusted himself to speak at that point. John blew out a candle, leaving just the faint light from the iron stove. A minute later, the bed creaked and the mattress sank as John climbed in. It was not until Sam heard John’s breathing turn deep that he let the tension drop from his shoulders and willed himself to sleep.
Chapter Nine
The Party
Sam woke with a start, his heart thumping with the panic of someone who has been shocked out of sleep. He listened, then shifted his gaze to the predawn gray just beyond the curtains. It was only a few seconds after waking that he realized he was very warm and couldn’t move.
He looked down as much as he could over the bridge of his nose and saw an arm across his chest, thin white linen bunched up to the biceps. The elbow was bent, allowing the hand to rest heavily against the right side of Sam’s neck. It was John. Of course it was John.
Oh, dear God.
Sam gasped, then held his breath and remained perfectly still. A second went by, then another, and then he breathed again when he was sure John hadn’t woken. Turning his eyes as far left as he could without moving his head, he looked into John’s slumbering face hardly a foot away. He was very asleep. He lay on his stomach with the side of his face pressed into the pillow. The position had his cheek squished up and his lips parted in a lazy impression of a fish.
Sam could have laughed at how simultaneously ridiculous and beautiful he was, if only the situation were not so dire. He shifted his leg under the blankets, only to meet resistance when the top of his foot struck the back of John’s heel.
How on earth?
Another straining look down confirmed that John’s leg was also bent and thrown over him, effectively trapping Sam’s left leg.
Sam wondered if the moderate temperature in the room was heaven and hell meeting. Yes, that sounded about right. Another shift of his hips confirmed that his morning arousal was right on time. And if his traitorous body was not enough, his mind seemed determined to dredge up every lustful image he had concocted in the last two weeks.
“Mmm.” John exhaled a deep breath and dug his face farther into the pillow.
As much as he would like to stay and enjoy the delicious weight of John’s body over his, Sam had to get out before he was so aroused there would be no hiding it. He turned his face to the side where John rested his hand. He could almost kiss John’s wrist at that angle. He thought about doing it. After all, what harm was there in a few seconds of pretending? When would he ever be this close to John again?
No. He had to move, and as there was no doing it without waking John, he had only one choice.
He flopped his face against John’s hand and twisted his shoulders, like someone trying to flip over in sleep. The sudden disruption was all it took. Sam heard a few incoherent sleep mumbles, then felt John’s hand tense against his jaw.
“Bloody hell,” came a sharp whisper.
He’s awake. He’s realized what he’s done. He’s probably staring at me.
Sam kept his face slack and his breathing heavy. He even left his lips parted to add to the illusion of deep sleep.
Sam felt John lift his leg first, slowly raising it off Sam’s calf and pulling it back to his side of the bed. He waited for John to do the same with his arm. Sam had his jaw nudged into John’s palm but not in such a way as to make its removal too difficult. He continued to breathe deeply and wait. And wait. When John’s hand did finally move, it was the gentlest, most subtle movement of his fingers along the line of Sam’s jaw. Back and forth, stroking.
Keep breathing, keep breathing, keep breathing.
Sam’s heart pounded as if it wanted to spring from his throat. What was John doing? Why was he doing that? How did a lord have such rough, calloused fingers? After another few seconds of the slow caress—was that what it was?—John’s hand stilled, and Sam heard a long sigh. Then, quite carefully, it seemed, John pulled his hand away from Sam’s cheek, and he felt the bed shift as John got up.
He continued to feign sleep, for what else could he do with his cock swollen and aching between his legs? Thank the Lord he had rolled over enough to hide it when he shifted. He willed his excitement away as he listened to John’s movements about the room, rummaging through his pack, pouring water into the basin, relieving himself in the chamber pot. Finally, Sam decided that John had made enough noise to realistically disturb him out of sleep.
He turned his back and sat up, rubbing his face.
“Did I wake you?” John said at once. “Sorry about that. I tried to be quiet.”
He’s nervous.
Sam didn’t know whether to smile or cringe. “No matter. Time to get up anyway. We’ll get a good start.” He headed straight for the wardrobe where he had stored his bag.
“Did you sleep well?” John asked.
Not as well as I woke.
“Like a log.”
They both went about shaving and getting dressed with only a few muttered exchanges. Sam was too distracted to do much else. Each time he glanced at John, he swore he could feel his fingers brushing along his jaw again.
“I’ll head down and order us some breakfast, see to the horses,” John said as he stopped at the door. Sam looked up and met his gaze for a second before John quickly pulled them away. “See you downstairs, then.”
He left.
Sam finished dressing and left his bag next to John’s for the servants to collect. They ate breakfast quietly, sharing a few words here and there about the party and what they would probably get up to that evening, but John seemed lost in thought. Each question Sam posed to ease the mood seemed to startle John out of some reverie.
It was not until they had been on the road nearly two hours that Sam had had enough. He had no idea what John was thinking, nor why he had touched him, and the silent confusion was driving him mad.
“Does Miss Bellows know about you?” Sam asked. He was desperate to find a topic weighty enough to take John’s mind away from whatever was distracting him.
And distracting me.
“W-what? Miss Bellows?” John frowned, then rolled his eyes at himself. “Ah, you mean Lily. No one ever refers to her as Miss Bellows.”
“No, I suppose they wouldn’t,” Sam said, remembering the happy spark he had seen in the lady’s eyes when he had addressed her respectfully.
John sighed and licked his lips. “No, she doesn’t.”
“Oh. Then you and she don’t…”
Sam didn’t miss the sudden rise of color in John’s cheeks. “No,” John said. “We have an arrangement. She’s my mistress in name only. She thinks that I am incapable. I had to tell her something.”
“That’s clever.”
“What?” John turned in his seat.
“Clever,” Sam repeated, and he meant it. “Everyone thinks you’re madly in love with her. I’ve noticed that the mamas don’t even bother thrusting their daughters under your nose because everyone tells them you’re unlikely to marry. It’s rather ingenious, actually.”
John gave him an incredulous look. “Are you telling me I’m a good liar?”
“It’s not always a bad thing, you know. Telling lies.” Sam gave an exasperated sigh. “One would not have to tell lies if the truth wouldn’t hang them.”
“Literally,” John muttered.
“Yes.” Sam nodded. “Then your daughter is not yours?” Sam regretted the question yet longed to hear the answer. Now that he was asking questions, he was loath to stop. He wanted to know everything about John. He wanted to know his likes and habits, what papers he read. Hell, he wanted to know if he preferred his eggs coddled or poached. But more than anything, Sam wanted to know why John had touched him that way.
“I love Sophie as if she were my own flesh,” John said, his eyes intent. “Lily was already with child when I met her. I was in the house when Sophie was born, and I held her when she was but a few hours old.”
Sam smiled, for the weight in John’s voice pulled at something inside him. “Yes. I have seen her in the park a few times with her mother. She is very beautiful.”
John beamed, which only increased the pull in Sam’s chest. Before he could think, he said, “She is very lucky to have you for a father.”
John turned that beaming smile on Sam, and Sam almost groaned. What he wouldn’t give to see those gold-flecked bronze eyes looking down at him one morning. Every morning.
Their conversation remained easy after that. They stopped at a stream to water and rest the horses while eating some meat pies the innkeeper had insisted they take. It was just past four o’clock when they turned down a narrow lane and spotted the outline of Mosley’s place.
The house was a massive rectangle in the style of the last century, its face a symmetry of tall, narrow windows and simplistic columns. Sam counted three rows of windows, not including the attics, and ground-floor wings extended out to the east and west. What it lacked in adornment, it more than made up for in size.